The One Garrideb
by LovesAngst
Summary: Now complete-Tragedy strikes and Holmes' soul is laid bare. "It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay beyond that cold mask." ― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Fucking horrible.

Attired in yesterday's wrinkled dress shirt, snatched from the bedroom floor in the dark, Captain Tommy Gregson was facing the most fucking horrible day in his career and it was only 5:00 in the morning. As Gregson approached his office at a worried trot, running his hand through his un-brushed hair, he knew damn straight he hadn't even gotten near to the worst of it.

Yet.

.

.

.

"Captain?" Detective Marcus Bell materialized from somewhere to his the left, reminding Tommy just how off his senses really were. Good damn thing he wasn't on the street right now. They stood together for a moment, wounded.

"Marcus." The detective looked as frayed as Gregson felt.

Shifting from foot to foot, Bell seemed uncharacteristically at a loss. "Captain, I'm sure glad you're here. Tell me what I can do to help. Is there anyone I can call?"

Gregson found that a surprisingly painful thought and the wince on Bell's face probably mirrored his own. "No, probably not. Not anymore." Fighting a lurch in his chest, he pressed on. "How did you even catch this?"

Detective Bell rubbed a hand across the back of his neck before answering. His top button was undone and his ever-present tie was long since abandoned. "Just luck, I guess. Although not the sort of luck I would have ever wanted." He looked up at the ceiling, blinking hard for a second. "It was awful. Two uniforms were bringing him in as a John Doe. He couldn't even walk under his own steam. No ID. He wouldn't—probably couldn't—speak. I don't think he even recognized me."

That damn catch was back in Tommy's chest again. "Jesus." He pulled himself back into the moment. He was a leader and he'd sure as hell better start leading. "I'm sure I know the answer, but, Marcus, how is he?"

"Honestly, Captain, I think it's bad. He hasn't said a word, which has me worried. I've got a medic on short notice. You know. In case."

Gregson's shaky hands scrubbed at his forehead, his face. His eyes. Eyes that felt as though they'd been peppered with ground glass. "Yeah, I know."

After a moment he rested a hand on Bell's shoulder. "You holding up?"

Marcus shook his head, lips pressed tightly together. "Nope. Not at all. I plan to get black-out drunk the moment I get home."

Gregson nodded, that tightening in his chest had crawled up to his throat.

Fucking horrible.

.

.

.

A uniformed officer was standing anxiously outside Gregson's office door. _How does someone even stand anxiously?_ He found himself wondering for a split second. That said, the man penned up inside could do that to most people with one glance.

The anxious uniform came to something of an odd attention before Tommy settled him with a hand on the man's forearm and a quick glance at the younger man's name tag. "Hey, it's ok. Just a report please Owens."

The fresh faced man looked like he'd been on shift all night.

Probably had.

His voice was forgivably unsure "I tried Captain. To get him into something clean. Washed up. But…"

Gregson could only imagine how that went. "Yeah. That's ok."

With one hand on the doorknob Tommy Gregson found himself wanting nothing more that to turn around, go home, and take a page from Bell's book—getting black out drunk. If traffic was light he could forget this…well, no, not forget it…he could dull this whole disaster by 6:00. Instead he called back over his shoulder, "Hey, Owens, do me a favour. Find a couple of wet cloths and slip them in the door." He turned back towards the door before remembering another pressing need. "Oh, and ask Bell to go to their place and grab some real clothes."

Even catatonic, there was no way Sherlock Holmes was going wear standard-issue department sweats.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Steeling himself enough to open the bloody door, Gregson stepped into his familiar space.

It was empty.

 _What the hell?_

Turning to the departing uniform, Tommy spotted the reason he was in his office at 5:00 in the morning sporting a full day's stubble and yesterday's clothing.

The NYPD's consulting detective was sitting on the floor, backed hard into the corner. Holmes' hands were fisted in his lap, his wiry legs splayed over the charmless industrial carpet.

Fuck.

The captain thought it was possible he'd never seen a living being look so wretched – and that was really saying something.

Holmes' once-white undershirt bore heavy, dark, stains.

Same with his hands.

His neck.

His jeans.

This was a man who had knelt in a lake of blood.

Angry tattoos glared out from pale blood-streaked arms.

.

.

.

Holmes' eyes were dazed and stared out of from a face Gregson barely recognized. Creases having appeared overnight. Dark dried blood—which made Gregson's stomach heave—graced Sherlock's corded neck muscles.

His stubbled cheek.

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed and dipped. The very picture of a man trying to hold himself together.

After a heartbeat, Holmes' eyes dropped to his lap.

Gregson's eyes followed.

 _Jesus._

Sherlock's hands were stiff with dried blood. Blood which cracked and flaked as the silent man twitchily picked at his nails. One set of knuckles bore the tell-tale ragged, wounds that come with striking an immovable object. He could almost see Sherlock driving his fist mindlessly into the dirty pavement of a poorly lit alley.

To his own ears, Gregson's voice sounded useless. He felt useless. "Holmes."

Ignoring his angry knees, he hunkered and then slid his back down the cheap fiberboard wall to sit shoulder to shoulder with the ruined creature beside him. Holmes was vibrating alarmingly.

And cold. So cold Gregson could feel it through his sport coat.

 _._

 _._

 _._

How to begin to comfort a man like Sherlock Holmes.The un-comfortable?

Un-comfortable. Uncomfortable. Indeed, perhaps that's where the word came from.

Still not completely sure that Holmes was even aware of his presence, Gregson slowly reached across his body to gently lay a hand on Holmes' forearm. Sherlock's body gave a start and then went still again. After a moment Tommy Gregson moved his hand down Sherlock's tightly muscled arm, squeezing a little as he went. He covered Holmes' uninjured—but still wounded-looking—hand with his own.

The cold, trembling flesh felt nothing like the firm powerful hand he'd shaken in the past.

The silence built.

Gregson cleared his too-tight throat.

What was there to say?

"Goddamit. Holmes. Sherlock. I…" Tommy heard the catch in his voice and pressed on anyways, running a hand through his hair as he spoke "I am so sorry."

Holmes nodded in a sharp, jerking movement. It was hard to tell if his consulting detective was in shock or strung out. Or both.

"Holmes?"

Nothing.

Pushing off the wall, Gregson clumsily maneuvered himself around to face his friend, still covering Sherlock's hand with one of his own, hoping to warm this one small patch of flesh.

Holmes still hadn't made any attempt at eye contact, his gaze bounced everywhere but on Gregson's.

"Sherlock?"

Tommy moved left then right, trying to position himself into Holmes' line of sight.

"Sherlock. I need to know." The man in front of him began absently gnawing at a grotesque cuticle; Gregson took that to mean he might continue. "Sherlock. I need to know what you've taken. It's ok. I just need to know."

Although he would have thought it impossible, Holmes pulled further into himself. Drawing up crossed legs, his hand pulling out of Gregson's loose hold. Sherlock's head hung, exhausted, between sharply pointed knees.

"Please, Holmes. I'm not here to judge, I just need to make sure you're ok. I have to make sure you're safe, right?"

Holmes seemed to be fighting mightily to gather enough of himself to speak, rocking in tiny little arcs. A lost child.

"None." was the whispered reply arising from that bent penitent's head.

Well, at least he spoke.

He still doubted the answer but Gregson waited and watched. There would be no better way to re-silence Holmes than to fill the silence.

The man in front of him looked as though he might keel over at a strong breeze. He imagined that Sherlock hadn't eaten, slept, or been watered for far too long. And then there was the cold. And the unspoken shock to the man's already-fickle system.

Like a distressed bird, Holmes canted his head this way and that, trying to remember how to speak. He finally voiced, still barely a whisper, "I've not taken any drugs."

A wince of pain coursed through the man from a jerk of his head to a hard twitch of his cramped hands. For an instant, Sherlock let his gaze meet Gregson's. His narrow shoulders rolled and rolled again, a question swallowing a question.

"I've promised her, haven't I?"

Of course.

.

.

.

Time passed.

"Holmes, let's get you onto the sofa. It's cold and drafty down here, and you're frozen."

Sherlock's glazed eyes were once more affixed on his hands as he shrugged out his indifference.

Gregson grunted his way up and held out a hand. Sherlock looked at the proffered hand as though he hadn't a clue what to do with it. _Ok, the hard way then._ Tommy took a firm grip of Holmes' thrumming arm, at the elbow. "Alright, Holmes, push up with your legs." Working on autopilot, the detective tried. He managed to get part way up before keeling back to the carpet.

Sweat beaded his grey brow.

Traitorous legs just wouldn't hold him.

"That's alright, I've got you Holmes". With a little more determined effort, Gregson managed to wrangle Sherlock onto the sagging sofa before pulling up a chair for himself. They were fairly knee to knee.

So Sherlock would know he was there.

"Holmes. I hate like hell to ask at a time like this, but I need your statement."

"Statement." The word sounded foreign when Holmes said it. It held no meaning.

"Yeah. I'm sorry Sherlock. I need to know…to know what happened."

At first, the detective's voice was stilted and strangely flat, "What happened."

"Yes."

Emotion crept into the edges of Sherlock's words, into his face. His shoulders hunched like a man protecting himself from attack. "You know full bloody well what has happened Capitan." For a moment, his eyes seemed to fill but he fought himself with the aide of his thumb and forefinger pressed, hard, to his trembling lids.

"Watson." Holmes started, stopping to swallow hard. He pressed his whole hand over his eyes now, swallowing down the sob that threatened. "The very best person I've…" his voice tapered off for a moment before spilling out his heartbreak. "She is gone. Dead."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Holmes had been right. He was always right.

Gregson knew full well that Joan was gone. _But the way he said it_ , the grief in the detective's voice…well Tommy didn't bother to hide the tears in his eyes. He probably couldn't have if he tried.

Sherlock was again focused on his limp, curled hands.

Gregson poured a glass of water. "I need you to drink this for me Holmes."

He waited a beat for the extra time it seemed to take the detective to digest words.

After a moment, Holmes reached out a pale, shaking, hand towards the glass, knocking it numbly. A junkie's hand.

But not.

Gregson managed to catch the glass in the instant before an upset.

"Do you need me to hold that for you? Can I help?"

Sherlock withdrew his hand for a moment and seemed to pull himself together a notch. When he picked up the glass it was with a fairly steady grasp. Over several minutes he choked back the liquid.

"Can you manage anything else at all? Coffee, food?" He took the man's silence as a negative.

"Sherlock. Is there anyone I can call for you?"

"No."

Obviously not.

Although still looking somewhere over Tommy's right shoulder, the detective spoke. "I cannot."

"Holmes?"

"It seems I cannot remember. What happened. The details. They are jumbled. Broken. It is beyond my powers."

"That's alright Holmes." He was describing a pretty normal reaction to a horribly abnormal situation. "How about you just tell me what you know. Tell me about this Garrideb character."

Sherlock Holmes looked almost relieved at not being pressed for all the horrid details.

"Alright."

.

.

.

He'd been a low level loser, Daniel Garrideb.

"We'd thought…No." Holmes corrected himself, angrily "It was me. I had thought, Garrideb to be a petty thief with delusions he was some sort of criminal mastermind. The man had no record, no skill, no _tradecraft._

"He was no one.

"The only reason we were on his trail, I'd believed like a fool, was to recover an heirloom pilfered in a clumsy home burglary.

"I'd been bored. Not enough murders to go around, ironically. I took the case against not only my better judgement but against Watson's reasoning as well."

Looking positively ill, Sherlock continued. Fighting himself the whole way.

"Garrideb was known to frequent a particular pawnshop, wedged as it were between the trendy clubs. The perfect place to leave one's Rolex in order that the party might continue. My watchers had reported him and we arrived moments after the call. By taxicab, of course."

Sherlock finally allowed himself to meet Gregson's eyes, for a moment, surprised at finding an unknown bit of information in his memory, "The sun…it had set some time ago at this point. It was full dark even before we left Baker Street" his face was abject "does that help?"

"It does."

.

.

.

Upon disembarking the taxi, Holmes veered north, at a jog. "I can still hear my footsteps. In my mind." With a sad, quirky expression he pressed on, "Joan headed south. We never should have separated."

.

.

.

Sherlock remembered clearly now. It was as if he had been transported.

Detesting the thought of losing such unworthy adversary, Holmes rounded the corner at a full run. Right into the alley where they began. In front of him, by maybe 10 paces, he found both his prey and his partner.

Waiting for him.

Garrideb had managed to get hold of Watson. Although the marks on his face suggested it had been far from easy.

The thief's voice rang out loudly and clear. "Hold right there for a moment please, Mr. Holmes."

Garrideb's fist gripped Watson's hair in a way that must have been painful. She was pulled hard to his chest.

A knife to her throat.

.

.

.

Captain Gregson quietly made notes; loath to interrupt Holmes' quiet, almost reverent, telling.

"It was not even a particularly large weapon. The knife."

Holmes seemed to look inward.

Moments passed.

"An assisted-open, black and green, USMC combat folding knife. Four and three-quarter inch blade." With a slow, stoic breath in and out Holmes harvested more data from the scene "In my mind's eye. Now I see.

"There was already a little blood. On Watson's throat" Holmes mindlessly touched his own, heavily stubbled throat "where he had nicked her."

With a wry expression he chastised himself for the hundredth time "Didn't notice at the time. Careless. You see," glancing up for a beat he pressed on "I still had no fear of the man at all. None."

And then Sherlock was gone, again.

.

.

.

Holmes had thought that he and Watson might still have time to pick up some Vietnamese carry-out on the way home, if he could wrap this up quickly.

"Mr. Daniel Garrideb. Kindly stop playing at this. You've cocked up rather too fully to save face now. _We_ know who you are, _the authorities_ know who you are, and, more importantly, the authorities know that we've come here to retrieve you." Untrue, but Garrideb didn't know that.

"Logic—you may want to have your barrister 'google' that for you—logic dictates the only course of action to be your immediate surrender. And an apology to my colleague for dirtying her hair with your clumsy, meaty, mitt."

"Well?" For good measure he added in a _hurry up_ motion and the impatient thrust of his head that usually unsticks people. "Come on then. Come over here to await the authorities you pikey moron!"

In the heartbeat that followed, Holmes' angry words still hanging in the air, something flickered in Garrideb's eyes. Something the detective certainly hadn't seen in the man prior.

Arrogance?

Triumph?

It made no sense at all, but Garrideb projected a new and sudden darkness. A depth Holmes had missed. At the pit of Sherlock Holmes' stomach a sensation built.

.

.

.

"Pretty words Mr. Holmes. I'd have done you, regardless, but it was to be lady's choice. In case your great brain hasn't managed to work it out just yet, Miss Adler wants you to know she has done waiting for you. Done watching you with this one."

Watson's expression changed from one of resolution to one of fright. The blade bit harder into her flesh.

"Miss Adler has quit you for good Mr. Holmes."

Irene.

Mind frozen, Holmes felt the blood drain from his face. Watching like a third person, like a man inside his own head, he could see his right hand rising in a sort of slowed motion, could see his perfect one inch shirt-cuff—checked shirt today—shot out from under his tweed. His hand hung in front of his eyes.

Placating?

Pleading?

Begging.

Beyond his hand, he sensed as much as saw quick movements, barely visible in the dim alley. Garrideb released Watson's hair, exchanging it for a firm grip across her chest.

He saw her startle at the brutishness of the movement. Watson's eyes found his own.

The hand with the blade disappeared, lightning quick, behind Sherlock's partner.

 _No._

Garrideb's shoulders twisted and rose with a grunting thrust.

And again.

Watson jolted twice, her face reading astonishment. Panic. Her expression flickered past the detective's eyes. His useless hand dropped to his side, even as Watson began to sink to the pavement.

Dimly, he knew he was yelling, must have been yelling.

His eyes burned into hers even as Joan's knees met the asphalt.

.

.

.

Daniel Garrideb was gone and Sherlock Holmes could not have cared less.

Without registering his own movement, his body met Watson's.

His knees crashing to the pavement.

Falling as she fell.

Holmes' mind screamed even as he reigned in his voice.

"Watson." _Christ._

"It's alright now." _Fuck._

"It's alright." _Please, no._

Running on pure instinct, he managed to get his arms around her, one at Watson's back, one in her hair. Her forehead pressed to his neck. Both tender and desperate, he clasped her to his own panting, catching, chest.

.

.

.

Watson's generous, strong, surgeon's hands were fluttering at his chest like a wounded bird. One at her throat, one fisted in his shirt.

"Watson? For God's sake say that you're not hurt!"

Desperately he craned his head over Watson's writhing shoulder.

To check.

Already knowing.

 _I must see._

He could not. Could not.

 _I must see._

"Let me look Watson, here, stop, let me see." One of them was shaking rather badly. Perhaps both.

.

.

.

A horrifying rivulet of blood ran from what he assumed were two matching rents in Watson's favourite shirt. So much blood. Already. Time stopped and his great mind refused to compute even one pixel of what he saw.

Holmes felt his heart stop. He was certain of it. Hoped for it.

 _Her_ voice pulled him back, into a terrible present. "Sherlock."

"Please." His hands trembled violently as he pressed her into his body.

Multiple stab wounds. Thoracic area; close to _everything_. Lungs. Inferior vena cava. Descending aorta. Joan's back was already slick with hot copper. The smell filled his nose, his mouth, his very lungs.

.

.

.

A/N - Thank you for reading! Reviews make my day :)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sherlock remembered the dark red that painted his perfect cuffs.

.

.

.

In a dash, all the starch went out of his charge and Watson was sliding from his gentle grasp. Shushing and stuttering, Sherlock eased his partner onto her side on the pavement.

Everything was wrong.

He managed to wriggle out of his jacket while keeping one hand splayed under her head and neck. Holding his jacket collar in his teeth, Sherlock managed to wad and fold the stiff fabric into something he could place beneath Watson's alarmingly limp neck.

"Sherlock" she whispered "tell me. Tell me what, what you see."

"Fuck. Watson. Here, Joan. Look at me, look here." He tried to catch her panicked-horse eyes. "There are two wounds. A hand span to the left of your spine. Just under your shoulder blade. You're bleeding Watson. Rather a lot."

An understatement if ever there was one.

He had to get the haemorrhaging under control and began tugging off his checked oxford shirt with the ruby cuffs while trying to keep a hand on the pouring wounds.

Buttons popped.

"I've got to get some pressure on this Joan. One moment. Here we go."

Holmes balled up the shirt and placed it at the source, at the head of the river of blood running out of his dearest Watson. He then gently rolled her onto her back, pressing this pathetic pressure bandage into place.

"Sherlock?"

Why did she sound so terrible? Already?

"Perfect. That's perfect." He was babbling he knew, but was—it seemed—completely powerless to stop. "You are going to be fine Watson. Fine. Help will be here immediately. An ambulance."

 _Dear God._

Watson's blood was running the pavement.

Soaking through his knees.

How could anyone so small bleed so much? So fast?

 _An ambulance._

Pulling out his mobile from his pants pocket, Holmes shaking fingers stabbed at the security screen, smearing the glass red.

Wrong code.

Again.

Again.

 _Fucking hell._

"My passcode! Please, Watson, what is my godforsaken passcode?"

Joan Watson's cool hand wrapped around Sherlock's naked wrist, her narrow fingers strangely free of blood.

White on red.

The pressure on his wrist drew the detective's eyes. Her expression was certain and insistent. The surgeon. "Don't. Sherlock."

He felt his head shaking, his entire body refusing her.

No.

 _No._

Absolutely not.

"Don't…Watson, we need an ambulance."

Holmes eyes were becoming strangely distorted. As though her were looking at Joan from the bottom of a pond.

His ears relayed unwelcome information that somehow made his vision blur further.

Watson's breath was heavily laboured.

But it had only been a moment...

 _Lungs._

"Sherlock..." she had to pause.

Couldn't catch her breath.

Sherlock thought he may die.

"Sherlock, don't," Another chilling pause "doctor's orders."

An oddly _pure_ agony consumed him; wholly unlike anything he'd experienced before. Sherlock heard the words behind the words.

He could read it in her eyes.

Dr. Joan Watson did not want the last moments of her life to be spent jostled about by perfunctory faceless medics, clasped and wheeled on a stretcher as a bag of laundry might be, all light and noise. Sirens and blue.

Red.

Those tiny flashlights that look like pens. Clothing cut off. Monitors beeping. Terse questions and knowing professional glances.

And they'd take her from him. The medics. They'd take her.

For a moment, Sherlock thought he might vomit.

Some help that would be.

.

.

.

Gregson's consulting detective had been quiet for long, painful, minutes.

He patiently listened to his too-loud clock tick off 500 more beats before breaking the silence quietly. "What do you remember next Holmes?"

"Please." The man in front of him begged. _Begged_. "Please, Captain. You know what happened. Joan was murdered—by a man, sent by my former lover whose covetousness knows no bounds. Because of me. Watson is dead."

It was clear to Tommy that Holmes was exhausted. Devastated. Furious.

Completely acceptable for a man in his position—pinned on the razors edge of guilt and loss. Holmes angrily thumbed one tear from the side of his nose before going on.

"Really? You need all the detail?"

Gregson quietly waited for whatever was next.

Sherlock's features screwed up, his breath hitched. "She said she loved me. You know. Watson. She loved me. That's what happened next."

Gregson truly wished he hadn't pushed him so hard; Holmes looked as if this was killing him.

It may have been.

The detective pointed a shaking hand at himself, "Me?"

"Joan _loved_ you Holmes. I knew that. Everyone did."

Holmes broken hands covered his face. One quiet sound of pain escaped from behind them before his silence, his slack face, returned.

Gregson settled in to wait again. Holmes had gone back into his memories and he could only go alone.

.

.

.

The world flashed in on Holmes in broken images and sounds.

Music.

British.

A blinking red light somewhere off to the side.

Watson's hand was still on his wrist.

But weaker.

One of Sherlock's hands clutched his blood-smeared phone while the other had somehow found its way to Joan's face. He thumbed a tear from her cool cheek.

Sherlock's voice and his mind insisted "We need an ambulance" but yet his phone dropped, clattering from his red fingers as both hands came to Joan. So dear to him.

So pale.

Cold.

He'd nearly never touched Watson before.

 _I should have touched her more._

Watson's breathing was strained and then with a choke and a gasp, blood appeared at her bluing lips.

Her teeth awash with it.

"Please. Watson. It's going to be alright. You're going to be alright. Please."

.

.

.

Joan Watson was not going to be alright.

.

.

.

She was gasping and struggling. Sounds Holmes would never forget. Her face was full of fear. Watson was drowning.

 _God._

"Alright, ok, Watson. I'm here. I've got you."

Phone long forgotten, Sherlock lifted Joan gently up towards his shoulder so she could breathe. He knew he was crying.

"Please Watson. Joan. Please…stay. For me."

As if his plea might somehow change the stone-written future.

.

.

.

Joan's forehead rested cold and damp, against the left side of his neck. Sherlock had one hand desperately pressing his soaked shirt to her back, other hand in her hair. Holding her head to him.

She was mumbling. Speaking. Sherlock couldn't make out her words, his own formless, begging, sounds had grown loud.

He quieted himself.

 _Be strong. Hold fast._

Watson choked and coughed.

Coughed again. He felt her nails digging for purchase, cutting and burning beyond his thin undershirt.

With each gasping retch, hot blood spattered his shoulder, his neck. Sherlock's chest constricted tightly. Spots formed in front of his eyes, his ears buzzed. Dizziness nearly won the day.

 _This cannot be happening._

Toppling off his haunches, he scrabbled them back until the two partners sat against the rough brick wall. Joan pulled firmly, safely, into his lap. After a handful of seconds, the dizziness receded. Joan's voice found him, coming out of the fog.

She spoke without panic, slowly and clearly.

Between gasps and rasps that truly made him want to die.

He couldn't look at her, throwing his head up to the sky instead, swallowing his sorrow.

"Sherlock. You are the best person I have ever met. I love you. Love you. _You are loved Sherlock._ "

Over and over she loved him. Her voice burned a soul Sherlock Holmes never realized he had.

He could feel her dark hair tickling the side of his face, her body tense and hard. Her hands became frantic. Grabbing, ripping.

"You are loved."

Watson's movements began to slow.

As if underwater, her voice was muffled "Don't be scared Sherlock."

.

.

.

He nearly laughed.

Nearly.

"But I am, Watson," he clutched her closer yet, rocking them "I am positively terrified."

"Sherlock, you are going to be alright."

He had no words, his head shaking and his chest heaving.

Alright?

No.

Never.

Not ever.

"You and Clyde." Watson chuckled, breathing heavily onto his neck.

Holmes felt a silent sob jerking his shoulders.

He could feel his face cramp in agony. But he had to hold it together, for Watson.

 _For now._

As if she'd read his mind Watson seemed to pull herself back, tightening her grip on his undershirt, his aching chest.

"No. Drugs. Sherlock. Just, live."

"Please. Watson. I cannot."

From beyond gritted teeth, from what must have been unimaginable pain, Dr. Joan Watson grated out what were to be her final words, "Promise me. Promise."

How could he deny her?

He could not.

"I promise."

.

.

.

As Sherlock turned his face into Joan's he felt the last semblance of composure leaving him. "Please" he begged, burying his face in her neck as a sob escaped his aching throat.

"You. Watson. You are the person I love most in the world."

As the music thumped and the red light flickered, Sherlock could feel the body in his arms fighting to breathe.

Joan became heavier.

Harder to hold up; wobbling under his ministrations.

Her breaths became shorter and more ragged.

Joan's hands dropped away from his chest and her head slipped laxly, into the crook of his arm.

.

.

.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

So quietly that Gregson strained to hear, Holmes admit, "I stopped the pressure. On her wounds."

"It had only been two, perhaps three minutes and already she was nearly gone. From me."

Sherlock would have known, Gregson realized, of the race between Joan drowning—terrified to the last—or perhaps more mercifully losing consciousness. .

.

.

In that bleating red alley, Sherlock prayed to a God he'd long since turned away from.

 _Let it end._

 _Let her sleep._

Sherlock snugged dear Joan in his arms. He shushed and comforted as best as he knew how. Whispered words he'd always meant to say. She had saved his life, his soul. Brightened every inch of their home, their work, his life. How he could not believe, _honest to God could not believe_ , that such an exceptional and perfect person had chosen him—over being a surgeon. Chosen him over everything, really.

How unimaginably much he loved and cherished her.

.

.

.

It wasn't long.

More than one song, less than two.

Watson's desperate breathing slowed, shuddered, and stopped.

As her bladder let go, a sob he had been barely holding burst out of him like a burning ember. Hot and red and agonizing.

Though he wouldn't have thought it possible she went even limper. Against him.

Joan's eyes were open, but they were empty. Her chest still heaving. A little. Twitching for air. Then just her hands.

.

.

.

Tommy wiped at his face with his handkerchief as Sherlock's talk came to a close.

He spoke absently, his detective's gaze firm, above Gregson's head. "I kept talking. You know. They say people can still hear. Might still. Hear."

"Yes, I've heard that too Sherlock."

"After a moment, I realized. Watson had died. Gone on. Without me."

.

.

.

"You never did call for help Holmes?" Gregson asked

"No."

"I have a few more questions if you think you can manage?"

Holmes looked like he was pretty near the end of his rope but nodded once, "go ahead."

"How long, how long would you say went by between when Joan was stabbed and when she…passed?" He was pretty sure, but Gregson wanted to be able to say with confidence that Watson had been beyond saving and the Holmes' panicked inaction hadn't been a factor.

"Minutes." Sherlock spoke thoughtfully but ever quieter, one shaking hand covering his mouth. "From beginning to end. More than five minutes, less than six."

"You did the right thing Sherlock. You know that, right? Even if an ambulance came, there would have been nothing they could have done."

Holmes only stared at the floor, blinking quickly, hand still clamped over his mouth as though trying mightily to keep himself from spilling out onto the carpet.

"It was a long time then, Sherlock? Until anyone came?"

One sharp nod was the answer.

.

.

.

After another glass of water, they went on.

"We know that Joan was injured…"

"Murdered." The word fell like a stone from Holmes' snarled lips.

"Yes. It's hard for me to say. We know that Joan was murdered quite a while before anyone found you."

Scrubbing his hands through his hair, Sherlock looked to have a moment's energy…frustration…anger. This blip of vigour dissolved as quickly as it came and he slumped forward far enough Tommy reached out to brace his shoulders lest he topple right off the sofa.

"Yes. Probably. I don't know."

.

.

.

Behind his closed and burning eyes Sherlock could see himself in the alley. He remembered bits. Moaning.

Remembered rocking.

Touching Joan's hair.

Kissing her forehead.

Keening.

He couldn't stop. He couldn't breathe.

.

.

.

.

.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

.

.

.

"We think it was several hours that you were alone in the alley Holmes. Joan—her body—had cooled quite a bit. You were also freezing and seemed badly in shock."

There was no question in Gregson's words, Sherlock Holmes sat silently.

"Can you try and help me Sherlock, to figure out what time this happened?"

"I can still see the light. Red. Flickering from an out of order exit sign."

Picking his notebook back up, Gregson jotted and spoke. "There was a club whose padlocked back door let out into the alley; do you think it was still open?"

Holmes squinted into the past. "Yes, at first. I remember bottles clinking. Music. Thumping. I do recall the thumping of music, right before…it…happened."

Tommy's eyes fall to Holmes' clenched fists. The knuckles had reopened, fresh blood dripped onto the man's wingtip.

"Here. Let me help." Gregson pulled out his wrinkled handkerchief and wrapped Sherlock's injured hand.

Not noticing, or perhaps not caring, Sherlock continued "It was already well-dark. Past 9:30. Before 2:00 am, when clubs stop up the music."

"That's really helpful, thank you Sherlock."

"Core body temperature." Holmes said.

"Pardon?"

Looking weary, his head wobbling, Sherlock continued, "Is core body temperature at the liver not how time of death is typically calculated…in a case such as this?"

Gregson could see Holmes already trying to distance himself from emotion, from connection. To revert to detective-mode. Tommy Gregson dearly wished he could leave him be. "Well, yes. Usually."

"Except?"

"God, Sherlock. I hate this. You were holding her. Holding her body, when the ambulance and squad car came at 3:58, after a passerby called 911. It's hard to tell how much heat was Joan's and how much was, well, yours."

Holmes didn't speak, swallowing harshly instead.

.

.

.

"Time of death then, we're estimating between 9:45 pm and 2:00 am."

Holmes' voice croaked. "Proper music."

"Sherlock?"

"The club was playing proper music. Proper British pop. Moody Blues. Joy Division. The Cult."

Gregson didn't picture Sherlock Holmes knowing the name of one band, let alone three.

His face was hidden again, covered by a hand, elbow on his knee. As if the memories physically pained him.

They probably did.

"The song."

"Holmes?"

"The song that was playing. In the club. After Garrideb had fled. As she died. As Watson died. New Order, Bizarre Love Triangle. Big splash in 1986."

"That's great Sherlock. We'll talk to the DJ; get the set list and the time."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes were threatening to spill over.

.

.

.

Gregson's office door opened with a snap as Morland Holmes presented himself. Unannounced. Decidedly uninvited.

 _Absolutely not._

Before registering his own movements, Tommy found himself standing protectively in front of his charge, one hand stretched out behind towards Sherlock.

"Hey. Easy. Go easy. He's had a pretty terrible day already."

Ignoring the captain completely, the senior Holmes' gaze honed in immediately on the blood-speckled cloth over Sherlock's knuckles. "You've been hurt."

Sherlock's mouth twisted up in a reply that had nothing to do with his hand. "Terribly."

No matter what the son believed, Gregson recalled that Morland Holmes knew quite sharply what it was to lose a loved one. To be there when it happened.

.

.

.

In four great strides, Sherlock's father was gone around Tommy entirely.

With a quiet gentleness that Gregson could not believe, he gently pulled Sherlock's head into his side.

"My boy."

Although he closed his eyes, Sherlock made no move to escape.

 _How bad off must he be_ Tommy realized, in order for Sherlock to allow himself to accept this touch. Gregson could see the broken man fighting himself. With his eyelids pressed tightly together, his Adam's apple bobbed furiously with swallowed sadness.

"You're freezing Sherlock."

.

.

.

After a moment, Sherlock was released and Morland began pulling items from a rich leather satchel. After feeding his son a bit of chocolate, he set about his mission.

Gregson could hardly believe his eyes as the older man gently began to tug Sherlock's bloodied undershirt up over his head. Manipulating his arms like a heavily tattooed child.

"Father…" he whispered. He sounded...afraid.

Reading Sherlock's mind, Morland reassured, "I'll save this, son. For you." The stained shirt was folded neatly and pressed into the bag.

Sherlock Holmes quietly thanked his father for what may have been the first time in his life.

.

.

.

Although Morland hasn't so much as looked at the Captain, it's clear he's speaking to him. "Cloth?" Gregson numbly passed him a handful of damp washcloths.

He couldn't look away from Sherlock's naked torso.

Angry, bloody scratches, deep and desperate skated across Sherlock's pale chest.

Watson's scratches.

 _Those_ were going to scar in every conceivable way.

.

.

.

Morland set to gently wiping his son's chest and neck. His stubbled jaw. His torn hands. It must have hurt like hell but Sherlock's face never changed as he wobbled, staring into the far reaches of the room.

He looked so perfectly alone.

Sherlock's father rewrapped his injured hand with a long bandage rooted from the bottom of the bag. Then on went a clean undershirt. A bespoke Oxford shirt he buttoned with the skill of a lifetime, topped with a warm grey cardigan.

"Would you like a tie Sherlock?"

Sherlock slowly shook his head no.

With the grace of a cat, Morland flipped back the tail of his coat and took a knee. He removed his son's shoes.

Sitting like that, looking so lost, hands dead in his own lap, bloody jeans and stocking feet, Gregson knew why Joan Watson loved Sherlock's so dearly.

It was simply impossible not to.

.

.

.

Finally, the senior Holmes shook out a warm and comfortable-looking set of grey, wool, slacks.

"Captain. Help me get him up."

The two men managed to get Sherlock to his feet and held his elbows as muscle memory kicked in and he clumsily worked his way out of the bloodied jeans.

Gregson helped Holmes step into the trousers before easing him back into chair for a rest. Before the two Holmes set out for Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes' first day without Joan.

.

.

.

A/N – please take a second and review…it truly makes my day! LA


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

.

.

.

Sherlock jerked awake. He was alone, aside from a nameless chauffeur, in the back of his father's car. Parked in front of the brownstone.

Wearing clothes he didn't recognize.

In a rush, last night was upon him again. It was a long time before he found the will to pull himself from the deep leather seats into the offensively bright morning.

.

.

.

Morland and Mycroft Holmes sat at opposite ends of the front room. His father had a newspaper open in his hands and his eyes snapped to Sherlock's with something that approximated care.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was fit to do murder.

.

.

.

In an instant Sherlock found himself trust flush with the wall—his brother _screaming_ into his face. Sherlock's mind outright refused to process English, as if he were being yelled down in another language entirely. Though the words rained past him, Sherlock could read the meaning in Mycroft's eyes. His red-rimmed gaze held absolute fury.

Then Mycroft's burning eyes filled and spilled over.

Sherlock felt his own chest catch and stick. Words, thoughts, breath—all stopped up, somewhere deep behind his breastbone.

Again.

Iron fists tightened on Sherlock's foreign sweater and for a moment he felt himself pulled away from the wall before being violently slammed against it again. Lathe cracked behind him and his head rapped off the plaster. Then he was yanked forward and slammed back again. He felt more cracking, from himself or the innocent wall he couldn't tell.

The world blurred.

.

.

.

His brother's barrage began to translate and the words hit him like a hammer. Pounding him, sliding down the wall. Crushing him to the floor.

"How does that make you feel Sherlock? You fucking _monster_!" Joan's former lover—bellowed. "When Joan was taken…only taken…you gave me no quarter Sherlock. You had exactly no empathy or compassion." Mycroft paced in front of him. "You wished me dead!

"And you were _right_ so I left, you see? I left my work, my home, my life.

"I left Joan." Mycroft's voice turned to a bitten-off sob and for a moment he stood, struck, with his hand over his mouth.

"For you Sherlock. For her. So you could both be safe and happy. As happy as your frozen stone of a heart was capable of anyway."

Another painful sob tore the air and Sherlock reached a hand up towards his brother. _Please stop._

"I _never_ should have left. Never should have left her to you! Because she didn't die on my watch, did she Sherlock? She didn't die."

.

.

.

For the hundredth time that day he found his voice unfamiliar in his own ears, low and hoarse. "You are right and I am sorry."

 _Sorry_ in no way covered it but he knew no word that might.

Seconds ticked by, Mycroft's panting breath was loud and echoed across the wood floors. The strength washed out of him-like water down the drain-and Mycroft staggered and sat heavily in a beaten chair. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, but filled malice and frustration.

"You were right there Sherlock. You couldn't stop one person with a little knife? From how you tell it, you're the smartest bloody man any of us mere mortals will ever meet. The most deductive. The most _goddamn brilliant_. You were right fucking there Sherlock!"

Out of the shadows their father spoke firmly "That's enough Mycroft."

.

.

.

Ten minutes had passed and neither of his sons showed any sign of movement. Mycroft sat with his face in his hand; Sherlock slumped like a broken doll against the wall.

Morland Holmes had been in each of their situations and he _knew_ Sherlock to be in a far worse place than Mycroft—regardless of what Mycroft might believe.

.

.

.

He had planned for Sherlock's future. Given his own history, Morland knew he wouldn't live forever and was pleased that Dr. Watson would be there for his odd, angry, brilliant, addict son.

And now his plans were in shambles.

What if he were assassinated tomorrow? God knows there were organizations out there hoping for it. Or had a stroke. Or fell and broke his neck in the tub.

 _Someone has to be responsible for Sherlock after I'm gone._

That left only the very unlikely Mycroft.

"Mycroft."

After a beat, his eldest made eye contact.

"Mycroft. I'm not feeling well and your assistance is needed here. Please, help your brother to his feet and into the shower."

"But…"

He stopped the argument with a raised hand. "Please Mycroft."

Mycroft was a good man. Once he took even an iota of responsibility for his brother, once he saw him naked and derelict, once he held his trembling hand, he would soften.

He would have to.

.

.

.

To Mycroft, Sherlock's chest looked as though he had received a dozen lashes.

In his mind's eye Mycroft could picture Joan held there, gasping and clawing. This fit with what he knew from the grainy MI6 satellite imagery he wished he had _never_ seen.

 _Dearest Joan. Sherlock._

For an instant, only an instant, he felt awful for his strange little brother.

"Alright Sherlock, I'm going to start the water." Sherlock could barely stand but said not a thing as Mycroft coaxed him over the lip of the bathtub into the shower. Sherlock had said only seven words since arriving home.

 _Shock._

Sherlock closed his eyes against the pink plastic razor. The long handled scrub brush, with a jaunty ladybug strapped to it's back, propped in the corner waiting for an owner that was never coming. The flowered bottles and pretty smelling things.

Hate and love.

Love and hate.

They both surged forward in Mycroft's chest as he held Sherlock's trembling elbow.

Water, hotter than it needed to be because truthfully Mycroft wanted it to sting, swirled the drain red. Then pink.

Then clear.

All traces of Joan Watson had been rinsed away.

But not really, not at all.

.

.

.

Having helped his brother into plaid cotton pajama pants and a ratty t-shirt, Mycroft insisted that Sherlock rest. "You lay down and I'll fetch a glass of water and a paracetamol. You know Father will send us straight back up if you don't, Sherlock."

With a half-nod his charge padded, feet bare and shoulders limp, into Joan's bedroom and lay curled, facing the wall, on top of the unmade covers.

 _That will have to do for now,_ Mycroft supposed.

.

.

.

A/N Thank you for your reviews so far…pretty please take a moment and tell me what you think


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

.

.

.

In better times, the little conversation that floated through the kitchen would have been worth a smile.

Morland's graying head poked in and out of the clunky, wheezing, refrigerator.

As for himself, Mycroft sat at the ridiculously long table passing the a shaker from hand to hand. The shaker, smooth and cool. The table was much too long for two people. Now it would be much, much too long for one.

.

.

.

"There's nothing in here; I believe this soda bottle actually contains eyeballs. What _does_ your brother eat?"

"How on earth do you expect me to know?"

"You are a spy, correct?"

"Fine, you've caught me. Indian takeaway. African. Thai. Any of the curries the world has on offer. Those would be Sherlock's favourites."

"I'll have my cook come over."

"Don't do that."

"Tea and toast then?"

"Tea and toast."

.

.

.

The words that finally broke Sherlock's silence were simple, "Not that cup, please."

"Of course."

Mycroft set the kitten-covered cup back on the sideboard and instead picked out an NYPD mug for his brother. It matched the hooded sweater he'd coaxed Sherlock into before bringing him down to the kitchen.

He'd fixed tea and toast—there was no doubt both other Holmes-es in the room would have been completely incapable of this for differing reasons—and he listened.

.

.

.

"I will catch you up a bit Sherlock, if you would like?" His father spoke over his own hot drink.

"Please."

"Alright then. This fellow—Daniel Garrideb—is also know in some circles as Morecroft. In other circles as Killer Evans."

Sherlock looked beaten, but lucid. "How appropriate."

Morland took a piece of the offered toast with a nod, and waited until Sherlock had as well. It sat, untouched. "Right then. I have to tell you son," Morland bit into his toast "regardless of his name, the fellow will never be able to answer to the justice system. I'm afraid he has turned up rather dead."

Morland willed his little brother to eat something. He was so very pale, slumped. Thin. _How does one even begin to lose their weight in one day?_

Sherlock's gaze remained on the offending toast "Dead. Painfully?"

"Oh, quite. There's a video, Sherlock, if you ever feel compelled to watch."

"A hired man." Sherlock said.

"I suspected. Enemy of yours?" Mycroft saw his brother wince; his father did not as he drained his mug. No sense dancing around the facts, he supposed.

After a breath, Sherlock slowly took a sip of his tea.

Mycroft took that to be promising.

"Irene."

His father nodded sagely "I see."

As though the hot drink had lubricated his tongue, or maybe his mind, Sherlock began to talk. "She'd grown tired of mine and Watson's partnership." Another sip. "I know now, having examined previously-ignored details in my mind while I was laying down, that Garrideb—Evans—was to kill _one_ of us."

Sherlock's hard-won detachment was slipping, his voice becoming wobbly. Mycroft talked him into a bite of bread before he swallowed hard and took up again.

"Evans. He would have used his pistol to threaten Watson with my outright shooting if she did not comply. He might have done so easily, I was completely and utterly unprepared. Obviously."

His brother's voice was frighteningly hollow. Dead. It didn't even have an echo. As though it was coming not from a man, but a wraith.

"Evans." the dead voice went on "Evans said very specifically that _'Ms. Adler said it should be lady's choice'_." Sherlock pushed his plate away as though he felt ill. "Evans did not mean, I believe, Irene's choice."

Sherlock took a long, shallow breath, pushing tearfulness forcibly back with his hands, before he could go on. "He'd made Watson choose. Lady's choice.

"Which of us was to die.

"Irene didn't need both of us dead. Just one or the other. One...gone. One left behind."

Mycroft felt his own throat tighten. What cruelty to both. Truly, it was awful.

.

.

.

After a long moment's pause his father finally asked what Mycroft had wondered as well. "What would you like done with her? Ms. Adler."

.

.

.

Sherlock thought.

What _would_ he like done with Ms. Adler?

He'd no doubt his father would make it happen. Or Mycroft. Both.

Irene Adler.

The woman he'd once loved. The evil mist he'd toyed with. This was his fault. Writing back to her, taking cases he knew she'd read about in the papers. Making comments to street urchins that he _knew_ would make it back to her. Stringing her along, in a way. Long after his desire had ended. He had perversely reveled in the forbidden attention.

The charming snake he thought secretly longed for him.

Loved him.

How laughable that seemed now. As if Irene fucking Adler had ever loved him.

As it turned out, he'd not even known what it was to be loved until last night.

Love was death, in an alley, with blood on your teeth.

He felt his shoulders give a lurch and hugged himself tightly—so he'd not unravel completely. He closed his eyes.

Love was a retching, gasping death. By choice. _That_ was love. Watson stammered and trembled out her last, gave the entirety of her life, in his arms _on purpose_.

By choice.

To save him.

And even then, at the worst of it, what she had cared about was him. Living. Not being afraid. His sobriety.

 _Christ._

His voice cracked and he let it. "I would very much like to know that Irene has been dropped down the deepest hole this earth has to offer."

"Consider it done."

.

.

.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

.

.

.

For Mycroft Holmes, the next days were a whirlwind of fucking sadness. Poking through Joan's papers, he quickly found her will. And just as quickly found himself to be the executor. Joan laid out her reasoning, in a warm letter, addressed to him on good heavy paper and written in her beautiful penmanship. He hurt for himself; he hurt for Sherlock.

Although there was much Joan had loved about Mycroft, there was no doubt that Sherlock was Joan's true _partner_.

In all ways but the bedroom, spouses.

For five years they worked together, dined together, rested together. Ate breakfast at the same long table, two newspapers and two mugs spread between them. Went to meetings. Watched the bees.

Each-other's difficult families were, for all intents and purposes, the in-laws.

They shared a home.

A pet.

Now his brother was a...widower.

.

.

.

In her letter, she'd said that either her and Sherlock would both be gone or, if Sherlock survived her, he would be in no condition to deal with banks, insurers, lawyers, and—of course—the funeral home.

As always, she was as right as could be.

It had been five days and Sherlock was most certainly capable of almost nothing.

Mycroft looked up from his phone to observe his little brother.

Again.

.

.

.

Although he still screamed out at night, in the day Sherlock's poorly-hidden tears and quietly hitching shoulders had stopped. Instead, he was absolutely still, perfectly silent.

Staring into the stone cold fireplace.

Mourning.

Father's doctor had been by and casted Sherlock's hand. A matte black cast which he picked at, when he bothered to move at all. Under his shirt, Mycroft knew Sherlock's chest to be bound tightly. He'd win no brother of the year award, having fractured a handful of the already-broken man's back ribs when he threw Sherlock into the wall.

Above the youngest Holmes hung what was, hopefully, to be the last IV bag. The occasional cup of tea and one loath bite of toast here or a biscuit there had not been enough to keep him upright.

Sherlock looked like a reluctant cancer survivor.

.

.

.

Dr. Joan Watson's funeral was a simple and beautiful affair.

The casket was classic and perfect. It shone in the deepest, glossiest black lacquer. The hardware was rose gold. In its perfect, rich, simplicity it _was_ Joan.

Inside, pressed down in the dark near Joan's ever-still hand, was the Royal Marines badge Sherlock had worn on his lapel for the whole of his adult life. It was pinned, with immeasurable love, to Clyde's little, blue, shark-fin sweater.

.

.

.

The clergyman had a kind and generous voice.

It rolled anonymously over the mourners.

How was it that a whole life full of passion and promise—beautiful clothes, high heels, and good food, friends and intrigue, hot showers and smooth sheets—one week ago could end up like this?

A gathering of bereaved, in plastic folding chairs, clutching little paper funeral cards. A swatch of artificial grass over damp soil.

The rest of the world continued on.

.

.

.

Sherlock Holmes sat at the front with a new haircut, fresh shave, shone shoes, and a _perfect_ suit.

He looked terrible.

Beside him sat Joan's very confused mother; mercifully unsure whose funeral she was at. Joan's newly minted half-sister held her elbow and whispered kind half-truths.

Tommy Gregson said a few words. As Tommy's voice cracked, Sherlock's bloodshot eyes snapped firmly to his hands—one casted one bare—where his gaze remained fixed until well after her casket had been lowered into the freshly turned earth.

To her left he'd purchased a resting place for Mary Watson.

To Joan's right, a plot for himself.

.

.

.

Afterword

.

.

.

Morland Holmes was terrified that his boy was going to die.

Of nothing. Of everything.

Of loneliness, sadness.

Heartbreak.

"He's never been this bad, Mycroft. Not even with the drugs."

Sherlock needed an objective. A job. He needed to be pointed towards something.

His youngest required a goal meaningful enough to occupy a portion of his great, grieving, mind. Saving the world seemed the only project near large enough.

The Dr. Joan Watson Memorial Apis Research Collective was born.

.

.

.

They harnessed it all.

Morland's money—and his contacts at every imaginable level of government and underworld.

Mycroft's ties, networks of watchers, and the countless favours he had to be called in.

Sherlock's investigative brilliance, time, and knowledge as a beekeeper.

They set out to save the humble bee.

.

.

.

Watson's Apis, as the _frighteningly_ efficient organization came to be called, succeeded where legislation, scientists, and tree huggers had long failed.

Laws changed. Rules changed. _Unwritten_ rules changed.

Chemical companies were procured and patents bought to be destroyed.

Factories mysteriously burned while researchers received endless sums of money.

The old-guard that refused change—from CEOs to governors, arms dealers to trust fund managers—tended to disappear. They were quickly replaced by incorruptible young professionals. Jeans and graphic t-shirts.

Over the years there were results. Bee populations rebounded. Redoubled. The group received all manner of awards and honours.

At least for their visible activities.

.

.

.

Against his very nature, Sherlock Holmes attended each award ceremony, company picnic, interview, half-time presentation, honorary degree, and silver-plate dinner.

For her.

Always for her.

He _was_ distant but unfailingly polite and graceful. Whether he stood in front of a room filled with people, cameras, heads of state, or a single reporter, Sherlock always spoke of the group's namesake. About her example, her motivation, her goodness.

For years he accepted awards on behalf of _Dr. Watson_ , then _Joan Watson,_ then _Joan._ Finally, when he was wiry and grey, heading up international platforms with a slight limp and his signature lacquered walking stick, the one with the rose gold tip and top, he called her _My Watson_.

.

.

.

Sherlock's last interview was published posthumously. He had grown more quiet and sensitive. A profound thinker and perfect gentleman to the end.

At the bottom of the article was an old photo. Sherlock and Joan. Young and alive they smiled, mugging for the camera, arms around each other.

Beside the photograph, the man's final quote.

 _It's been said that if my Watson hadn't died, Watson's Apis would never've been founded._

 _That the very world itself, might have been on the edge of collapse._

 _Bees. Plants. Animals._

 _Us._

 _But I'd have preferred it that way. You understand, yes?_

 _For her to have lived._

 _I'd have considered it a deal at twice the price._

 _The world for My Watson._

S. Holmes

.

.

A/N – thank you dear reader for following along on this little journey! Please review below, I appreciate them so very much. LA


End file.
